


Mithridates' Prison

by Cormack_the_Crow



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Because I wanted a male avatar and I wasn't about to deal with three different 'he's in one story, Canon-Typical The Corruption Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The End Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Flesh Content (The Magnus Archives), Gen, My brand..., Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Original fear domain, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Why is Jon suddenly going by they/them you ask?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:27:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29707482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cormack_the_Crow/pseuds/Cormack_the_Crow
Summary: Jon and Martin find themselves in a jungle that seems strangely alive for how much it wants them dead. (Aka, a fear domain based on poisoning.)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Mithridates' Prison

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was 'Okay Lamps are Done it's Time for MURDER' which shows roughly where I am in the "is Cormack okay" scheme of things. The answer, of course, is yes. I am doing great. Thank you for asking. Not supporting this is the fact that I accidentally made the avatar look somewhat like me, at least in that he has gray eyes and a black-and-red beard. Also not supporting this is the fact that I am actually studying Toxicology. This wouldn't be my fear domain, though. Just saying.
> 
> If you can catch all the random references to poisonous things from description alone, you are extremely cool. There is no prize, though.
> 
> Also, hey, are you a fan of fan statements? Or horror in general? Want to join a Discord for just that? [Say hi!](https://discord.gg/Cr8ZzxgX7s)
> 
> Content warnings:  
> -Ants  
> -Spiders  
> -Snakes  
> -Forced eating  
> -Poison  
> -Decay  
> -Decaying flesh  
> -Holes in flesh  
> -Violence  
> -Spiral-typical "it's all in your head"

“It’s a ‘they’ day, then?” Martin asked. It struck him as an oddly normal thing to say as he shoved aside hanging vines dashed down its tendrils with red fire ants. His skin crawled at the sight of their snapping mandibles. Beads of liquid welled up at their tips, but none of the acrid drops so much as grazed him. In fact, the ants didn’t even budge as the vine swung back into place.

“I think so,” Jon replied as they ducked under a branch. Martin had to crouch to follow. They chuckled as what Martin thought had been a branch split to reveal white gums and fangs that could have reached his second knuckle. “It’s weird not to know for sure. I can see through the entire world, but my own gender is an enigma half the time.”

Martin shrugged and glanced away as he made eye contact with the spitting snake. Its bronze eyes gleamed around slit pupils. _It can’t hurt you_ , he assured himself. His heart still pounded as the weak sunlight glinted off its scales. The same cold nausea rolled through his stomach as if he’d smelled blood. Perhaps he ought to be thankful human physiology still kicked in. Hunger and sleep were distant memories, but his body still knew to avoid danger. Even when he couldn’t actually do it. Even when he had to get closer. “Just one of those things,” he said after too long a pause.

“We’re going to have to walk through the domain proper,” they warned. Their hair, still a jumble of curls from the six long months in the hospital, bristled with stray twigs. Pausing for a moment, they plucked out the worst offenders as if not supernaturally aware of the wriggling red and green caterpillar hanging from one leaf.

There was no need to reply. Already the dappled light that had managed to reach through the canopy was spreading into proper patches of gold and emerald green on the rainforest floor. Fungi the shape and color of an antler shedding velvet pierced the rays and cast long shadows over the leaf cover. It was little relief that the thing couldn’t move to catch them.

The undergrowth parted to reveal a clearing littered with stumps. People—victims, Martin realized—sat crouched over a table that seemed to stretch on for miles. Its legs sprouted from the soft earth with the same ease as the rotting stumps, but it was carved into patterns too ornate for him to discern at this distance. The victims huddled over steaming plates of mushrooms and translucent white petals of flesh arranged like a flower. Slabs of something that looked like smoked leather were surrounded by delicate berry tarts. Martin’s mouth watered, but he wasn’t certain whether it was out of desire or revulsion.

For the first time since they’d started their trek through the poison forest, Jon squirmed. Their eyes were fixed on the table, on the people clutching silver knives as if it would protect them against the food in front of them. Their tongue, wormlike, flicked across their lips.

“I’ll go on a walk.” Martin sighed briefly, then deeper when he realized there was nowhere for him to go. The path of crushed leaves was the closest thing to clear that he had seen. Going back along the winding route was an option, but the scuttle of something on a tree trunk cleared it from his mind. “I’ll… I’ll just cover my ears then.”

If Jon heard, they gave no sign.

#

You should be thankful you found the feast. Your hand shakes as you pick up a silver fork. Is it dread? No, it’s the bites. It must be. They run up and down your arm, an army of red welts, still burning days after the ants—was it ants? Spiders? Snakes don’t leave marks like this—bit you. It was your fault, really. You’d blundered into a nest because you hadn’t thought to look where you were going. That must have been it. Nothing in the jungle is vindictive, you know. Nature does not want to see you die, after all. It just doesn’t care if you do.

So it must be the bites. The forest is oppressively hot, but they are hotter. Your nerves wilt under them. That is why your hand shakes as you press the side of the fork into the tender flesh of the mushroom. Its skin splits like a flower reaching toward the sun. Something about the upturned gills is achingly familiar, but you can’t remember from where.

“Is everything alright?” the host asks. He lays down a platter of fish sliced so thin you can see the silver underneath. “Here. Fugu—it’s a delicacy, you know. Pufferfish. Of course, you have to cut out the venomous parts.” He grins, and there’s something about his teeth that makes you run your tongue over your own, as if to make sure you don’t bleed as you touch the tips. Two silver studs frame his curled bottom lip.

“You did cut them out, then?” you ask. The shaking has gotten worse. You set down the fork to keep it from rattling against the ceramic of your plate.

The host shrugs and wipes his hands on the apron folded double around his waist. “I don’t prepare the food. Just serve it.” He places a piece of meat on your plate. It stings your nose with a punch of smoke and ammonia. “Eat up!” With that, he is gone.

Someone down the table from you gags. You reach for your fork, but can’t bring yourself to pick it up. Disgust and hunger roil together in your stomach. You’ve been in the jungle so long. You need to eat. Your fork is so heavy. Instead, you tear at the pungent meat with your fingers. It falls apart in flakes, showering your plate with foul-smelling strands. Still, you shovel handful over acrid handful into your mouth just to make it go away. Saliva like battery acid leaks over your lips, but your throat refuses to swallow. It’s the exhaustion, you tell yourself. You know you are wrong.

It is only slowly that your body complies with your wishes, but even as the wad of protein crawls down your throat you find yourself chasing it with the cap of mushroom. Your stomach clenches, but you can’t tell if it is getting ready to disgorge your hard-won meal or prepare for more. It doesn’t matter. Your teeth sink into cap. The savory liquid from its spongy flesh dribbles down your chin.

Movement between the platters catches your eye. A spider strolls between the dishes. It is large enough that you can see each beady black eye, and it seems to know that. Its pace suggests a challenge to the rows upon rows of humans it passes. Hadn’t you read something about the big spiders being the least venomous? Now you don’t know. Does it matter? The spider fixes all eight of its eyes on you as if to judge how much venom it would need to pump into your veins to rot you from the inside out.

The bites itch. When you scratch, blackened skin and straw-colored fluid form a crescent moon under your nails. It was red a moment ago. Ant bites don’t go necrotic, though. You would assume a snake, but snakes don’t leave marks like this. Spaced so each ring of dead flesh just touches its neighbor. Clinical. Knowing. Careful not to waste a drop of venom.

“Are you alright?” The host again. This time his tray is empty except for a stack of dirty dishes. He picks up your own and adds it to the pile. A silver skull so small you’d thought it was no more than a stud adorns one ear. His gray eyes are concerned, but your gaze is drawn to the red streaking his otherwise black beard. Its dye, you tell yourself. You know you are wrong.

Your throat spasms for want of speech. He doesn’t seem to notice. “The food is safe, you know. We’re up to every code there is. What you’re feeling now is nothing more than fear made manifest. And some residual toxins. Nothing to be done. Won’t kill you, though.” He moves a tart from the tree of desserts to your platter of fugu. Bright red juice bleeds over the wan cream. He licks a smear off his finger and continues his work.

Knowing that your mind is what’s causing it does not make it easier to swallow. You cross your hands over your throat even though you aren’t choking on anything but your own swollen esophagus. The host glances up at you. A smile flickers over his face. “Feeling the effects, eh?”

Anxiety and poison churn your stomach. Fevered blood rushes to your face even as it seems to drain from your arms and legs. The trickle of air to your lungs is not enough to keep you conscious, or perhaps it is fear that’s making your mind swim and the world fade.

“The food won’t kill you,” he repeats. “Neither will this.” His smile splits his face, revealing white gums and curved fangs. By the time he sinks his teeth into the mutilated flesh of your arm and you feel the steady pump of something too cold to be blood in your veins, all you can feel is vindication. You knew snakes don’t make marks like that.

#

Martin hadn’t heard the statement, not really. The bits and pieces that Jon enunciated, or moments he adjusted his hands over his ears. It hadn’t mattered. He’d been too afraid of the crawling canopy to keep his eyes off of Jon for fear—for fear of what? That the apocalypse would lose its favorite person to a spider with a grudge? The absurdity of the concept hadn’t made it any less pressing. So he watched them as they spoke. And out of the corner of his eye, he had watched their muted words play out in pantomime.

The person the host had been hovering over was now folded over their plate, body rigid as if it had been made of plywood. The host took up his tray of dishes and looked up at the forest. For one, chilling moment, he made eye contact. Then, with a wink, he walked away.

“We are _not_ going through there,” Martin argued. His shoulders were still tense from the host’s gaze. He forced them to relax.

Jon shook their head. “We don’t have a choice. The forest on either side is just an illusion. The whole point is to force people into the clearing.” The rapture of the statement gone, they looked more queasy than certain.

Martin suppressed a groan. “Fine.” Arguing with Jon was one thing, but there was no arguing the dream logic of the nightmare world in which they’d found themselves. “But we’re not stopping to eat.”

Jon laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. “No, absolutely not.” With that, they pushed past the trees and into the clearing, leaving Martin to follow.

No one looked up as they wove between stumps, some septic and encrusted with multicolor fungi, others still oozing sap along the rings. No one looked up as the reached the head of the table, lorded over by a crumbling wooden statue of a man wearing what may have once been a skin but was now gray with rot. No one looked up as they passed putrid displays, or when Jon drifted closer to Martin to avoid the spider that had found itself at home among the cups, or when they gawked at the bloodshot eyes of the victims. Even when Martin’s stomach clenched and he gagged at the biting smell of something he could not recognize, no one looked up.

That was, except, for the host. He sat across from the statue, seemingly miles away, watching their approach. When they reached a few chairs-lengths away, he stood and picked up his discarded tray. “Come for the feast?” he asked. His smile revealed the two needle-like fangs protruding over his bottom lip.

Rage bubbled up in Martin’s chest, mixing with the burn of poison in his lungs. The strangled cry of a victim behind him only strengthened his resolve. “Absolutely _not_ ,” he snapped. “You’re a—” he was about to say ‘monster’, but the word died in his throat. The fact that the host had fangs, and more than that, venom, would be little comfort to Jon. Having wielded it on others when they were sure of their humanity, the word now stung them past what Martin’s assurances could heal. “You disgust me,” he spat, but the anger had fallen to a simmer.

The host shrugged. “Say what you will, but it _is_ the natural way of things. Venom to the hunter, poison to the prey. You develop one or the other.” Idly, like the conversation already bored him, his eyes scanned the table. He shuffled the empty plates and cups at his spot before resting his hand, half-cupped, on a patch of bare wood.

“So that gives you free reign to poison people?” Martin demanded. Did none of this matter to the man? Was the fact he murdered people for his own entertainment so prosaic to him that dishes were a greater concern?

“Martin—” Jon warned.

“No, Jon. I know you’re not going to pull your whole Ceaseless Watcher schtick, but you’ve got to at least admit that this guy’s—”

“ _Martin_!” Jon yelped, and Martin finally saw the spider hanging from the host’s carelessly twirling finger.

Martin was, as a rule, a fan of spiders. Little spiders were acceptable, and a pet tarantula when he was young had lent him a certain fondness for bigger, hairier ones. Even the slender ones held a certain grace. This, however, was the exception to that rule. Hanging from the host’s finger was a spider whose legs could have spanned a two-pound coin. It thrashed against its own glistening silk, mandibles working in fury matched only by the disjointed movements of its gangly legs.

Jon pressed against Martin, their breath ragged. Martin took their hand, but soon found that their return squeeze nearly cut off circulation. Still, he refused to let go.

The host looked up only after the spider had reached his hand and dropped again. That satisfied smirk spread across his face again. “Ah, not a fan of spiders, are we?” A spark of cruelty came to life in his eyes. He leaned in, bringing the spider to twitch and writhe mere inches from Jon’s face. They let out a strained whimper that tore at Martin’s heart. Before he could act on it, though, the host stepped back. “Well, I would hate to displease our guests.” With that, he lifted his hand above his head, opened his mouth, and, with neither hurry nor hesitation, ate the spider. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Martin could have sworn he heard the thing pop between his teeth. “Enjoy your stay,” the host said after the knot in his throat bobbed once, twice, three times before finally stilling. He took his tray back up and walked away, making small talk with his choking victims.

It was a longer time still before Jon and Martin began their trek anew.


End file.
